


The Reeling World Stood Still

by mresundance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Gen, M/M, Multi, New Relationship, POV Multiple, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a problem; naturally,  it must become everyone's problem. </p><p>Set between 2x01 and 2x02.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reeling World Stood Still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JetpackMonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JetpackMonkey/gifts).



> With thanks to [Kit](http://twitter.com/#!/thebeardlessone) on Twitter for beta. :D
> 
> For Jetpack Monkey, the winning bidder for my thread at the recent [Fandom Helps](http://fandom-helps.dreamwidth.org/) auction benefiting Planned Parenthood.

John woke on Wednesday to crashing noises from downstairs. 

"No," he protested while burrowing, hedgehog like, deeper into his sheets and duvet. "It's cosy here."

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed from the sitting room. More crashing. 

"Mrs. Hudson!" The second time louder. John squinted at his clock, and, making a noise, wondered why the hell he put up with Sherlock Holmes. 

He'd gone to bed wondering that. Sherlock couldn't even watch a simple horror movie without deriding it with snide comments. 

"A chicken woman? _Really_?" Sherlock had groused.

"It's dark and humorous," John had explained wearily. 

"Maybe if you've the humor of a twelve year old--"

"I'm going to bed," John had announced.

"What? Now --"

"Goodnight," John had said. 

Now, John descended the stairs, wrapped in his duvet. It was his own way of protesting the fact he'd left his bed. 

Sherlock, in the middle of throwing around a pile of books, barked at John as he entered. In the background, the television blared: "Bang! And the dirt is gone!" John groaned at the advert as he put the kettle on.

"Sherlock, can't you turn the telly off?" 

"John!" Sherlock said again. His hair was wilder than usual, his face paler and his impossible angles -- those jutting cheekbones and pointed chin -- were somehow sharper. 

"It's six-thirty Sherlock," John bristled. "Even your own brother thinks this is the arse end of the morning."

"Because he's a lazy sod," Sherlock said, with less venom than John would have anticipated. "John, it's important --"

"Everything to you is sodding important, especially if it has to do with you --"

"This is of primary importance." Sherlock grabbed the duvet, dragging John forward so that both men's noses grazed. Sherlock's breath on John's face was hot and intimate. John found himself wanting to lean further into Sherlock and wrap them both in his duvet. 

"Life or death then?" John asked finally.

Sherlock nodded and John noticed the purple shadows beneath his flatmate's eyes.

"Alright."

Sherlock released John. 

"What seems to be the problem?" 

Sherlock flapped his arms. 

"The remote."

"What about the remote?" 

"It's missing."

John told himself to take deep, calming breaths.

"The remote. Is missing."

"Yes, you idiot," Sherlock hissed.

"You are making all this bloody ruckus at six-thirty in the morning because of a remote?" John's face puckered and he reminded himself that throttling Sherlock would probably aggravate the situation. 

"I need the remote John. I _need_ it."

"Where did you leave it last?"

Sherlock made a noise and rolled his eyes. 

"Oh please, John, I've already _done_ that. I've looked everywhere. It must have been stolen."

"Stolen," John said, rubbing his face. Behind him, the kettle whistled.

"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" Sherlock snapped.

John counted down from five.

"Sherlock," John took the kettle off and poured a mug. "I am not deaf, or stupid. You are just not making sense."

Sherlock made an exasperated noise and took off, blue bathrobe flapping behind him.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he went out their door and down the stairs to 221a. "Mrs. Hudson!"

John sighed and let himself enjoy a few scalding mouthfuls of tea.

* * *

Eunice was not surprised to come home with her door open, nor to discover Sherlock in her flat, blustering and stomping. 

When she'd bought the house on Baker Street, it had been the first time she'd been on her own, financially and domestically, since marrying her husband at the age of sixteen. She didn't have regrets, but sometimes she wished she could go back in time and warn her younger self.

"Oh, it's fun now, dear. It's exciting, being in love with a dashing young American," she'd say. "He's on his best behavior now. He won't lay a hand on you. It's not that at all. No. It's just that . . . he'll cut you up with his words like you're nothing. Every day. For the rest of your life."

She had been glad when it didn't turn out to be the rest of her life. Nearly fifty years, yes. But then her husband had made a mistake -- which she thought might happen -- and then Sherlock had come along, with that dramatic black coat and those boyish dark curls and that sharp young mind.

He hadn't rescued her; of that she was quite sure. But he had shown her compassion, in his way, by finding the evidence which had assured her husband's execution in Florida. And for that she would always be grateful to Sherlock, and utterly fond of him.

But because of her past, Eunice rose early every morning and took a walk to Regent's Park, simply because she could. Because no-one could tell her not to. Because she could breathe the cloudy London air and let her thoughts spiral out around her, a web of memories and words. She could sit under a tree and watch the sun rise, or stand and listen to the rain as it ran off her umbrella. She belonged to herself; she could do as she pleased. Eunice sometimes wondered if she had waited her whole life to sit on a bench, feeding crumbs to the squirrels, simply enjoying being herself. 

She'd kept her husband's name for the same reason -- it was hers now. That, and people would not chide or pity her for being unmarried at her age. 

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock said. 

"Yes dear," Eunice replied, stepping into her flat. Sherlock had already rooted through her refrigerator, disturbed her sofa cushions, and pushed around the pile of books and magazines on her coffee table. 

"Oh Sherlock, look at the mess you've made."

"Where is it, Mrs. Hudson?" He towered, eyes manic, and she wondered when he'd last slept. 

"Where is what dear? You know you don't let me touch your things," she hung up her coat and put the kettle on. Talking to Sherlock was so often like talking a young child. She had to parcel things out in small words, and reiterate the rules and boundaries that he was supposed to adhere to. And talk on his level. 

"The remote!" he waved his arms in frustration, as if she could possibly know why he'd broken into her flat around seven in the morning on a Wednesday.

"What remote dear? Tea?" 

"Oh my god, the _television_ remote," Sherlock clenched and unclenched his hands as if he were going to throw a strop. 

"Why don't you sit down and have a nice cup of tea and then we can look for it," she said cheerfully. She placed two cups on the counter. 

"I don't have time for tea," Sherlock gestured, accidentally sending one of the cups shattering to the floor. Eunice was not at all surprised, or disappointed.

"Sherlock," John said from the doorway. Eunice could see he was trying very hard not to shout at Sherlock, though his whole demeanor was set to "scold". He was wrapped in his duvet for some reason. Eunice wondered, once again, if she had let her flat out to children instead of grown men. 

"I need the remote!" Sherlock huffed. 

"You help her clean up that mess. Now," John pointed at the broken teacup.

"Honestly boys, it's alright," Eunice said as she knelt to scoop up the pieces. 

She was fond of them, it was true, but sometimes she found their youthful drama draining. She also wished they would finally sort out their relationship. From the first day that John had come to look at the flat, they had been jostling around one another, always wondering "what are we to each other, exactly?" But she supposed they would figure that -- and themselves -- out in time, just as she had. 

The kettle boiled and Sherlock grumbled and finally relented. He stayed long enough to gulp down a few mouthfuls of tea. This was Sherlock's way of apologizing, she knew, as he rushed out dramatically.

* * *

> To: Greg Lestrade  
>  From: Dr Watson  
>  Receive: Wednesday, 7:24 am

> Might need some help with SH. JW

"Oh bloody hell," Greg chucked his mobile on the floor with his trousers.

"That sounds like an 'oh Sherlock' tone in your voice," Mycroft mused from beside him. 

"Well, it was John who texted, but it was about your brother, yes."

"I do wish they would get themselves sorted," Mycroft said. 

"Yeah, they need to," Greg said. "Is it weird to be talking about your brother -- here? Now?"

Mycroft chuckled.

"For most people, yes. But you well know that my brother has a habit for getting into places he shouldn't."

"Ah."

Greg was discussing Sherlock so he wouldn't have to look at Mycroft. Especially since he did not fancy Sherlock; he would never end up in Sherlock's bed, lying naked with Sherlock. This was also why Greg had answered the text, instead of ignoring it. 

Mycroft rolled and stretched, and though there was space between them, he bumped Greg's hip with his knee. Greg looked at him, finally, and felt overwhelmed. 

Mycroft Holmes was much like his brother. A pompous, arrogant tosser who swanned around in his expensive clothes, and peered down that lovely nose of his. He stood taller and broader than his brother though, his power focused rather than splintering out in a million directions. Quieter too. And completely deadly. He sauntered around with an umbrella -- as if he were bloody Mary Poppins! -- while he made calls which ended in people's torture and death. Of that Greg was quite sure. And Mycroft's mercurial eyes could turn from menace to lust in a second, a second that Greg almost missed last night, before Mycroft grabbed a fistful of his gray hair and kissed him. 

Now though, Mycroft looked more like a giant pussycat, twitching his metaphoric tail in languor, rather than an archenemy, a government official, or someone powerful, remarkable, or dangerous. The morning light made the freckles on his torso and back stand out copper colored. Greg thought of playing connect the freckles with his tongue. 

Last night Mycroft had kissed him, and he had smelled like caramel and black coffee, something Greg had not expected, and which had touched him in some quiet way. He'd wondered how many people knew what Mycroft Holmes smelled like, or that he had so many freckles, or that his sheets felt divine not because of their obscenely high thread count, but because they smelled and felt like Mycroft. And Mycroft had pressed him into those sheets with a tenderness and reverence that had shocked and frightened Greg as much as it had aroused him. 

"Greg," Mycroft rolled nearer. 

"What?" 

"You're thinking --"

"Don't tell me what I'm thinking. It's creepy when you do that."

"Apologies," Mycroft frowned. Greg wished he hadn't said anything, because Mycroft had actually been smiling. 

"No. I. Sorry. This is just weird."

Mycroft looked at him and none of his looks were ever innocent, nor bland. 

Greg continued. "Good weird. But weird."

Mycroft shrugged.

"Didn't know you liked James Bond movies," Greg ventured. "I should think, with your job . . ."

"I would find them asinine? Yes. Well. I don't _mind_ them. But to be honest I was contriving a way to spend time with you, Inspector."

Greg shivered at the word _Inspector_ spoken in that smooth, arch tone. 

"Yeah, I got that feeling when you asked me out the first time." 

Mycroft snorted. 

"I think last night's -- date -- had a pleasant conclusion," Mycroft said as they settled in closer.

"Lucky date number seven," Greg hummed. 

"Indeed."

They continued to shift and fidget, trying to find the least awkward ways they fit together. Like assembling a puzzle for the first time, Greg thought as he lay his head on Mycroft's shoulder, and pressed kisses to the freckles there. It might take awhile for them to get used to one another; somehow he knew they would be very comfortable once they did. 

"Comfort should never be underestimated in a relationship," Mycroft said, and then made a face.

"Is that what this is now? A relationship?" Greg said as Mycroft took his hand and laced their fingers together.

"I suppose."

"Don't sound so chuffed Mr. British Government," Greg nipped his shoulder.

"I shall try to contain myself." Mycroft kissed Greg's hand and Greg knew that was his way of saying "yes" to the relationship question, though he'd no idea how either of them would make this work at all. To begin with, their jobs and their schedules were impossible --

"You've no idea _yet_ Greg. No idea -- yet," Mycroft said softly.

"Stop doing that," Greg said and kissed Mycroft so he'd stop rolling his eyes like the pompous git he was. 

"I have learned in my career, Greg, that you take one thing at a time," Mycroft said when they paused. "I imagine your time with the police force has taught you the same."

"So let's not rush it?"

Mycroft smiled again and Greg thought he could love this man. Not now, but in the future. 

"Yes," Mycroft said into Greg's lips. 

They indulged further in the newfound pleasure of each other's bodies, then showered and dressed. Greg gawked at the checkered shirt, green tie, and coarse sage-gray waistcoat and trousers Mycroft donned. 

"Going pheasant hunting in the country or something?" Greg teased.

"It's my Wednesday," Mycroft smiled. "The first Wednesday of every month, I excuse myself from my duties."

As Greg sat down to breakfast, Mycroft continued: "I don't even answer my mobile phone unless it is of vital importance. Anthea screens my texts and calls. Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee," Greg said, jittering in his seat. "So that's what you call 'casual' wear, eh?" 

Mycroft arched a brow, but kept smiling as he poured Greg coffee.

"Well. A day off. Must be nice," Greg rubbed his hands together. "I have today off too," he added, then cringed at himself for sounding so eager. 

"Scotland Yard could spare you?" Mycroft drawled.

Greg snorted. "Sally told me to bugger off. I needed a day after the last case."

"With the children," Mycroft said quietly, sympathetically. 

"Yeah."

They ate. Greg wanted to spend the whole day with Mycroft. He finished his coffee and waited for Mycroft to ask. When it became apparent he wouldn't, Greg wondered how daft and desperate he would look for asking himself. He was braced to do so, when his mobile bleeped. Mycroft glared at it.

> To: Greg Lestrade  
>  From: Dr Watson  
>  Receive: Wednesday, 8:49 am

> Code Orange. JW

"Shit," Greg said, feeling both irritated and relieved.

"My brother?"

"Yeah," Greg stood. "Sorry, I have to go --"

"It's not dire is it?"

"No. Just a code orange."

"Ah. Mad Sherlock on the lose."

"Yeah," Greg collected his coat and hustled out the door. 

"I'll see you later Greg," Mycroft called.

Greg hated Sherlock sometimes, just as he loved him. This was one of those moments. He was irritated for having his morning with Mycroft interrupted, yes; but relieved for the same reason.

"You just can't follow Mycroft around like a lovesick teenager," Greg told himself as he found a taxi. "You're a grown man, Greg Lestrade," he said as he left Whitehall.

* * *

Mycroft had wanted to seize Greg by his coat-lapels as he left, to push him into the wall and kiss him.

"Stay," he'd wanted to say. "Let's take a walk through London, along the disgusting Thames. I know some nice bakeries. Then we can come back and go to bed again."

But he'd let Greg leave. He needed to think; a curious sensation, especially for a man who could determine whether an entire government flourished or fell after a few moments of deliberation. 

He took his book and umbrella and strolled out in the spring sunshine, dripping warm over the brick and cement and glass of London. He sank into the anonymity of the city, her busy crowds and thoroughfares; the silent side-streets; the cool green parks; ending at his favorite café, overlooking the brown arc of the Thames. He ordered some Earl Grey, loose-leaf, and a slice of agonizingly sweet mille-feuille. He did not think of how much nicer his walk would have been if Greg had accompanied him. He most certainly did not think of sharing his mille-feuille with Greg, as if he were some love addled teenager. Nor of Greg's smile, which seemed to soften all the sharp, cruel edges of the world. Or his laugh, braying but honest. Nor his hands, firm in their affection as he'd reached for Mycroft. 

Sentiment, Mycroft grimaced, flicking through his book. He had avoided it for years; he had not ascended into the upper tiers of the British Government by entangling himself in these sort of things. Perhaps that was the point though. Sherlock's dark, slender figure came into view around the corner -- a second ahead of schedule too.

We're all tangled up in each other's lives somehow, Mycroft thought. 

Sherlock's hair was wild, his eyes blown melodramatically wide in that alabaster face. Beneath the hem of his long, black coat, Mycroft saw his brother's blue bathrobe wink in the sunlight. He arched his brow at that, before returning to his book. 

"Dressed for the occasion, I see. At least it's not a sheet this time."

Sherlock _harrumphed_ and sat down. 

"What is _that_?" Sherlock jutted his chin. 

"It's a book Sherlock. Surely you are capable of deducing that."

"I can see that, Mycroft," Sherlock bristled. "But it's --" he curled his lip. 

"A big gay romance novel?" Mycroft offered. "Beneath me and my sophisticated tastes?"

"It's utter shite. The prose is ludcriously purple with 'great silky spearheads of desire' and men -- chewing -- on each other, like dogs --"

Mycroft arched his brows at Sherlock.

"Shut up," Sherlock said. "I was _bored_ one day and John said it was better than shooting the wall. I'd rather have shot _myself_."

"Why didn't you simply delete it?" Mycroft asked.

"Some things are so awful, you simply cannot _delete_ them," Sherlock sighed, tossing his head. "At any rate, you're not even reading the bloody thing. You're thinking about -- Lestrade," Sherlock smirked.

"And you're having problems with insomnia again," Mycroft countered. "You've woken up John, disturbed Mrs. Hudson, and now me and my --"

" _Boyfriend_ ," Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft put his hand down on the table, hard enough to make his teacup rattle in its saucer.

"Stop this Sherlock. It's my Wednesday off. What do you want?"

"The remote," Sherlock said. 

"What remote?"

"The television remote! Is everyone here an idiot?" Sherlock shouted. Several café patrons stared at him. 

Mycroft laughed, the one he called his "James Bond villain laugh", because it rankled Sherlock.

"Really? The television remote? Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, and you cannot find a simple television remote. Well, I don't have it, even if it would spite you," he said, returning to his book. And then: "I can find you a doctor for the insomnia."

Sherlock shot up, knocking his chair back. This was not unexpected. 

"No bloody doctors," he raged, the same tantrum he had had since he was ten years old and tore his thigh open on a nail, while climbing a broken fence. He hadn't won that one, though he'd only given in after hitting and biting Mycroft repeatedly. 

Mycroft sighed and put his book away.

"Fine. Let's find your -- remote," he said. 

"Don't sneer at me," Sherlock said.

"Don't be childish," Mycroft rose.

They walked along the river for a few moments, in contemptuous silence. 

Mycroft resolved that he would call Greg when this trifle with Sherlock was done, and see if Greg couldn't spend the afternoon or evening with Mycroft. He was so preoccupied with Greg it took longer than he would have liked to suss out the reasons behind Sherlock's unrest, and his quest for the television remote. When Mycroft did suss it out, he stopped walking and began laughing again. 

"What?" Sherlock snarled. "What is it?"

"You can't shut it off, can you?"

Sherlock's whole body tensed with fury.

In spite of the consequences, it was well worth aggravating his brother so.

* * *

John and Greg gave up searching for Sherlock and returned to 221b.

"We need to text Mycroft," John said as they came up the stairs. He didn't know why he was worried about Sherlock, except that he was. After Sherlock had thrown a strop at Mrs. Hudson, shattering one of her tea-cups, his moody behavior had only escalated. He'd shouted at John a few more times, thrown things, and left in a huff, grumbling and pulling his black coat around him, though it was too warm for the coat. John had texted Lestrade with the code orange then, something he had arranged the first time Sherlock had gone missing. 

John worried, always. He worried about Sherlock going out when a case had been successfully concluded, and Sherlock was thus happy and sated. In these instances, John worried that Sherlock would do something reckless and stupid, simply because he was high on his own ego, and felt he would escape unharmed. When Sherlock was in a foul mood, John worried he would go out and throw himself in front of a bus, because he was "bored"; or he would go to a drug den and just sit, inhaling the vapors until his mind slowed and he lay comatose. Since the night John had shot the cabbie, he'd always braced to find Sherlock dead, or to receive a phone call that his flatmate had finally gotten himself killed. 

"That is irrational," Sherlock had noted once.

"No, it isn't," John had almost retorted. "But trailing after you is. And how bloody protective I feel about you is. You're a fucking grown man, I know. But I'll be damned if you go out there alone. And if you're going to get yourself killed, at least let me be with you."

But he hadn't said any of that. Instead he'd gulped down the words, like barbed wire in his throat and belly, and wondered how many of them Sherlock had read in his face and demeanor.

Lestrade and John reentered 221b. "Mycroft won't answer his mobile," Lestrade said.

"Why the bloody hell not?" John snapped. "Some Holmesian rivalry --"

"No, it's not that," Lestrade said. "It's uhm. Mycroft's day off --"

"His what?" John fumbled with his mobile. 

"His --"

"Is Sherlock back?" Mrs. Hudson said from the doorway. 

"No, Mrs. Hudson," John said.

Then a flurry, of John arguing with Lestrade, because he was anxious about Sherlock and angry with Sherlock, and Mrs. Husdon saying they should call the police and then remembering Lestrade was there, and, oh, nevermind, she'd bring up some tea while they waited.

John texted Mycroft, repeatedly, stabbing the send button a little harder each time.

"Easy mate," Lestrade said as Mrs. Hudson brought up a tea tray.

"I'm worried," John said, exasperated at everyone and everything by now. Even Mrs. Hudson's floral print dress was too noisy, her cheerful banter grating. He wondered if this was how Sherlock felt about people all the time; if it was, it explained a great many things. 

John yearned to hear his flat-mate's stride galloping up the stairs, his booming baritone.

"John," he'd say, eyes dancing, pale face glowing like a lantern in the dark. "There's been a murder."

And John would follow, heart drumming, not from adrenaline, or running; but from chasing after Sherlock.

John sank down into the sofa, and this realization.

"Are you alright dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Yeah," John said, smiling. "I'm fine. It's. Fine. Really fine." 

Downstairs, the door to the landing opened. 

"Get your hands off me," Sherlock's voice vaulted up the stairs. John stood.

"As you wish," Mycroft said. 

John went to the door. Both Sherlock and Mycroft were soaking, dripping a trail of water behind them as they ascended the stairs and entered the flat. 

"What . . . ?" John laughed, half relieved and half bewildered.

Mycroft made a face. "Sherlock lost his temper and threw us in the Thames."

Lestrade sputtered. 

"I rather enjoy an afternoon swim," Sherlock said smugly, shaking water out of his dark curls. 

"Disgusting," Mycroft said and Lestrade went to him.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said. 

"He wasn't talking to you," Mycroft glared. 

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not."

"You need a shower," John said, giddy as he helped Sherlock out of his heavy, wet coat. 

"Yes," Sherlock murmured.

"I'm glad you're alright," John blurted and didn't pay any attention when everyone in the room looked at him. Mycroft rolled his eyes, and Lestrade squinted sympathetically. Mrs Hudson tutted and said, "Oh you two." Sherlock smiled at John, in that affectionate, consuming way of his which always made John hold his breath.

There was a quiet, disrupted only by the sound of London traffic, and the television in the background broadcasting _Judge Judy_ and her patronizing American accent. 

"The remote," Mycroft said.

"What?" John said vaguely, taking his eyes off Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed. "The remote. Is missing."

"Oh, right," John said. "Yes. Uhm. We looked everywhere -- except -- well."

Mycroft arched a brow, in that superior way of his. 

"This is probably stupid," John muttered and went to the sofa. He rooted between and under the cushions. "I mean, if Sherlock couldn't find it -- it's probably not -- here," John said as he pulled the remote from the sofa cushions. "Uhm."

Sherlock made a face and Mycroft smiled smugly at him. 

"Oh really boys," Mrs. Hudson sighed, crossing her arms. "I'll be back later for my tea tray," she called as her footsteps receded down the stairs. 

"What, for a remote?" Lestrade gaped. "All this for a bloody remote?"

"Apparently," Mycroft said, straightening. "I'm returning home. I need to change into something dry," he noted. He looked over his shoulder at Lestrade. 

"What? Oh. Yeah?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft nodded.

"Yeah!" Lestrade said, bouncing out after Mycroft. 

When they had left, John asked: "What was that all about then?" 

"Lestrade and Mycroft are 'dating'," Sherlock grumbled. 

"Really?" 

"Ugh, I know," Sherlock tried to swish dramatically, but his sopping bathrobe only slopped wetly. 

"So, why all the fuss about the remote then?" John asked as Sherlock took said object from him.

"Couldn't turn the bloody thing off," Sherlock grumbled, stabbing the power button and turning the television off. 

"That's it? You just wanted to turn the television off?" John was trying very hard not to laugh.

Sherlock made another face.

"You know there is a button for that on the side of the telly, right? It's not remote only."

"Shut up, I couldn't sleep," Sherlock said. "My mind wouldn't turn off and that bloody TV was droning on --"

"Let's get you showered and in some dry clothes," John redirected, guiding Sherlock towards the bathroom. "Oh, and tell me how the case with Violet Hunter is going." Sherlock, despite being both irate and tired, brightened.

Later, while Sherlock was in the shower, John brewed tea. A calm had settled back over 221b -- if such a word could ever be applied to them and their lives -- and John chuckled to himself about Sherlock. 

"What are you laughing about?" Sherlock murmured from the sitting room. He lay curled on the sofa, damp hair making a dark halo around his head on the cushion. He was wrapped in John's own robe. It was too short for him, and his knees stuck out, white and bony, and his forearms jutted from the sleeves. How awkward he looked, John thought, and how dear. He found a blanket.

"You," John answered, draping the blanket over Sherlock. "I was laughing about you."

Sherlock smiled at John. 

"Oh really?" he yawned. 

"Oh god yes," John said. 

Sherlock made a noise, and, reached for John's hand. 

"John," he whispered, squeezing John's hand in his own. 

John leaned down and they kissed, light and tender. It felt achingly familiar to John, as if it were not a first kiss; as if they had been kissing all along. 

"Mmm," Sherlock said when the kiss broke. John heard the kettle boiling, singing. 

"I'll be right back," John said. 

Sherlock was asleep when John returned. He sighed at his flatmate, and kissed his temple, and tucked him in.

**Author's Note:**

> Chicken-woman: From the 1932 film _Freaks_ , in which a woman is punished by being turned into a giant chicken-woman. It is both really creepy and entertaining.
> 
> Earl-grey, loose leaf: I know, earlier it says Mycroft smells like coffee. I assume he drinks coffee on most days. But it's his Wednesday ~~and he's just made sweet weekly love~~.
> 
> Mycroft's book: [The King's Men](http://lizzledpink.tumblr.com/post/5202879621) by Christian Fall, aka, Mark Gatiss. See also [this post](http://weepingcock.livejournal.com/561294.html) for further information regarding the chewing of man!parts. Noms. I assume Sherlock borrowed it from Mrs. Hudson. I use the term "borrowed" loosely. 
> 
> Title stolen from "At a Party" by Jack Spicer:
>
>> I watched the lovers falling in the dark  
> Like heavy autumn leaves upon a lake.  
> They were so very slow it almost seemed  
> That every color had belonged to them.  
> Bright shirts and bursting jeans by candlelight  
> Flickered and fell apart. Then it was late  
> The bottom of the water had been touched  
> Love's limit reached, and every color lost.
>
>> I waited for you on the balcony.  
> We trembled like two leaves caught in the sky.  
> You were so drunk the reeling world stood still.  
> I was so sober I could see stars fall.  
> We could not always stay suspended there.  
> We floated down and touched the lake together.  
> I noticed that your eyes had lost their color  
> When we had reached the bottom of the air.


End file.
